Still Thinking of You (14 page)

Mia shrugged. Tash thought that it had probably been such a long time since Mia had had an intimate conversation with a lover that she probably couldn’t relate to Tash’s theory or practice. Mia and her lovers swapped saliva not stories.

‘Our entire relationship is based on trust. No secrets, no lies, just 100 per cent respect and honesty. Aren’t all relationships?’

‘So you know everything there is to know about Rich’s past, then?’ asked Jayne.

‘Yeah, pretty much. I could just about name every one of Rich’s significant exs and detail the circumstances of the most interesting seductions. Well, at least as clearly as Rich can. He’s sometimes a bit vague about names or the order of his flings. Spread himself a little too thinly at times.’ Tash grinned. ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine with it,’ she added, turning back to Mia. ‘Well, it was all such a long time ago and it was just –’

‘– a shag,’ stated Mia.

‘Yes, that’s what Rich said.’ Tash closed the conversation with a guilty sense of triumph.

25. 95 Per Cent Honesty

‘Hi,’ Jayne beamed at Rich and waved excitedly.

‘Hello,’ he replied, nodding in her direction, but not breaking away from the queue for the ski lift.

‘Are you trying to get in one more run before the lifts close?’ she asked.

Rich nodded again, then started to fiddle with his goggles.

‘All the other girls gave up at lunch time. I’ve been boarding on my own since then. Do you mind if I join you? I was just deciding whether to go back to the hotel or try for one more run.’

This wasn’t actually true. Jayne had been waiting by this lift for over an hour hoping to track down Rich. She’d heard him plan his routes this morning and knew he was the type of man that stuck to his plan. She’d figured that she would see him, eventually, at La Frontaliere, the black run, if she was patient enough.

Jayne was very patient.

Rich didn’t reply, but he moved his board an inch or so to the left, to acknowledge that he had to accommodate Jayne and allow her to join the queue. Jayne turned to the grumbling people she was pushing in front of and made their holiday by flashing one of her gorgeous smiles. The smile silenced the objections. Rich saw the guys behind him melt and couldn’t help but grin to himself. He had to admit she was a stunner. Any red-blooded male would get the horn within ten metres of her, let alone if she pressed her dainty derriere into their crotch as she edged into the queue.

The lifts were getting busy as everyone tried to squeeze in a last run before the light was completely lost, so Jayne and Rich found themselves sharing the chairlift with someone else. The French guy was in his sixties and clearly a seasoned skier – he didn’t feel the need to make polite Franglais chitchat as the lift rose. Jayne and Rich were left to themselves.

‘Isn’t it darling?’ sighed Jayne, waving her arm at the landscape, indicating, Rich supposed, that she was talking about the view. Rich scowled. Nobody said ‘Isn’t it darling?’ any more, not unless they were the princess in a Disney animated movie. Jayne was no princess.

‘The snow has lain so thickly that the mountains look as though they are wearing tablecloths and the trees look as though they are dressed in paper doilies, a veritable tea party. Don’t you think so?’ Jayne turned to Rich, whom she wrongly assumed she was charming.

‘I don’t know what paper doilies are,’ said Rich, turning his head to tighten the strap on his helmet.

‘Darling, you
do
know. Snowflake-shaped bits of paper. Grandmas put them on plates of scones.’ He looked at her blankly, so she gave up and simply muttered, ‘It really is beautiful.’ They stayed silent for some seconds before Jayne asked, ‘So, how have you been?’

‘Good,’ replied Rich.

‘You look good,’ she smiled encouragingly, ‘but then you always did.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Rich. Good manners and poor judgement forced him to add, ‘You look good, too.’

‘Thank you,’ grinned Jayne, clearly delighted with the compliment, although she had heard several more verbose ones in just one afternoon as she’d hung around the lifts. Those gushing compliments meant nothing: Rich’s reluctant one meant everything. Jayne knew she looked fantastic. She’d mastered the mix-and-match earthy colour scheme favoured by boarders and was wearing blues and beiges. She’d instinctively known to avoid the top-to-toe pink-patterned numbers that ski bunnies chose, although she’d happily worn those in seasons of old. She preferred the snowboard outfit. That and because Rich boarded were her two reasons for choosing the sport.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she said, getting straight to the point. Rich moved a fraction away from her, although the tiny lift seat allowed little room for manoeuvre. He stared straight ahead, refusing to meet Jayne’s eye. Jayne knew instantly that she’d overstepped the mark. She’d tried to move him on before he was ready for it, so she added, ‘Natasha seems lovely.’

‘She is,’ confirmed Rich cautiously.

‘You’ve done very well for yourself there.’

‘Haven’t I.’

‘Who’d have thought it? Rich the old rogue settling down.’

Rich was determined not to be drawn, and so they fell silent again as the lift reached the pinnacle of the slope. They both expertly hopped off the chair and scooted to a safe distance away from the rotating seat. They fastened on their boards, and Jayne turned to Rich.

‘And isn’t Tash cool, the way she’s so friendly towards me. Despite our past and everything?’

Rich froze. Jayne’s radiant smile did nothing to melt him. In fact, it was her wide grin that sent shivers up and down his spine. After a long pause, he admitted, ‘She doesn’t know about you.’

‘Doesn’t know about me?’ Jayne appeared shocked, but it was, of course, pretence. Before she’d wangled an invite on to this trip she’d been pretty sure that Tash wouldn’t know about her. After all, none of Rich’s friends knew about their relationship. Jayne would have been more worried if Tash
had
known about her and Rich; it would have shown that Tash’s trust in Rich was justified. That would have been the death knell for Jayne. But Tash’s lunchtime conversation about Rich’s sexual partners had confirmed that, despite Tash’s belief in Rich, he was not being 100 per cent honest with her. Tash knew about Mia, but not about Jayne. Jayne was delighted.

‘No. She doesn’t know about you,’ sighed Rich. He’d feared this conversation from the moment Kate had cadged an invite for Jayne.

‘You mean us,’ said Jayne pointedly.

‘There’s no reason why she should,’ insisted Rich. He was trying to sound calm and controlled, when in actual fact he was extremely nervous. He refused to look at Jayne. ‘We were over an age ago.’

‘Hardly, darling. I was still sucking your cock this time last year.’

Rich breathed in quickly; the cold air whipped the back of his throat and silenced him. He’d always found that extraordinarily sexy – the way Jayne seemed so entirely proper, with her ancient lineage and smart received pronunciation, and then the next moment she could be so filthy. Her statement was as coarse as it was candid.

‘It’s interesting that Tash insists that the two of you have no secrets
at all
. She says that your entire relationship is based around respect and honesty. Aren’t all relationships?’ Jayne was quoting Tash directly, and she was pretty sure that Rich would know that. She wanted to see him sweat. ‘Odd, then, that she thinks she can name every one of your significant exs–’

Rich tried to interrupt; he wanted to argue that Jayne wasn’t significant. He’d found a loophole.

Jayne didn’t allow him his moment, but carried on, ‘–
and
detail the circumstances of the most interesting seductions. I think you have to agree, I come under the category of the latter, if not the former.’

The loophole was closed.

‘What’s your game?’ he asked.

‘Game?’ Jayne looked out at the beautiful vista, and shrugged. Rich grabbed Jayne by the arm and tried to get her to look at him.

‘Don’t play the innocent with me.’ He’d tied her up in ropes once. They’d had anal sex. There was no point in her feigning innocence now. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Didn’t my darling brother explain everything to you? Some bastard dumped me and I’m heartbroken. I’m here to recuperate.’

Jayne finally turned her beautiful brown eyes on Rich. He stared into them and tried to read her expression. It was hopeless. Jayne had perfected the art of deceiving him. In all the time she’d known him, she’d been very careful that whenever she looked at him she did not allow the love she felt to radiate out of her eyes. And now, she had no intention of showing him her desperation.

‘What’s that got to do with me?
I
didn’t dump you,’ insisted Rich.

‘You fucking liar,’ she snapped. ‘You were in my life for over ten years, then nothing. I call that dumping.’

‘But we haven’t seen each other for months.’

‘It seems like yesterday to me. Time hasn’t moved.’

Rich felt a slow panic rise up his body. ‘I’m with Tash,’ he insisted anxiously.

‘For now,’ replied Jayne.

‘For ever,’ said Rich, but he wasn’t sure whether Jayne heard because his words were swallowed as she pushed her lips on to his. He was too surprised to know how to react and remained stone still for a fraction longer than he would have done if his wits hadn’t deserted him. Remembering himself, he broke the kiss and pushed Jayne away. He stared at her angrily and then, somewhat pathetically, wiped his mouth as though she’d sullied him. Jayne appeared unperturbed by his rebuff. She winked, then sped off down the mountainside, leaving Rich afraid and confused. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, as he knew that a fair share of his confusion stemmed from the fact that as she sped away his final thought was, ‘Great arse.’

26. Bar Flies

It was a good bar to have chosen, Kate thought. For one, she wasn’t the only woman sitting alone. There were two others. One was protected by a magazine which Kate assumed was the French equivalent of
Hello
, while a weighty novel shielded the other. There was also a family of three. A mother and father and a boy aged roughly eleven, not older. He smiled too much to have hit his teens yet. Kate immediately scrabbled for her mobile phone. She called Ted’s mother and was assured that all the children were fit and well. She talked to everyone, even Aurora, who chatted contentedly and incomprehensibly down the phone. After saying goodbye half a dozen times, Kate finally hung up.

There were two men sitting at the bar. One had his back to her, but she had a good view of the other, who was the epitome of Frenchness. Dark, floppy hair, elegant limbs and movement, and well-cut jeans, a fleece and loafers. Neither of them noticed Kate. She was relieved.

The bar was perfect in many other ways, too. The person serving behind it was female, the floors were clean and the music was 1980s. They played people such as Paul Young and Annie Lennox, tunes Kate recognized and even knew the words to. Importantly, they played tunes that
had
words. She ordered herself a hot chocolate and found a warm corner to enjoy its powdery creaminess. This was the only time on a skiing holiday that Kate felt completely peaceful.

She didn’t like snow.

Kate was not sure hell was hot at all. She imagined it would be icy cold. She’d skied every year since she was an undergraduate, so she was competent at the sport. But she simply didn’t get it. What was all the fuss about? You went up a mountain, then you came down again. Sometimes you fell, sometimes you didn’t. Either way the whole process had to be repeated. To what end? Kate didn’t get the thrill that everyone talked about; it was as elusive as multiple orgasms. Besides, physically Kate was no longer ideal for this sport. She was four stones heavier than when she’d first hauled herself up a mountain, when she was eighteen. She’d felt every ounce of those four stones this morning. Kate had been grateful for the three years when she had been pregnant and was able to sit by the fire, with hot chocolates and a legitimate excuse.

Kate sighed and ordered a second hot chocolate. Her already weak willpower definitely suffered in the cold. She was ravenous again, even though she’d had that huge pizza at lunch time. She looked longingly at the menu. They’d be having dinner in a couple of hours; surely she could wait until then. It would be a four-course dinner. But, on the other hand, if she had a crêpe now it would take the edge off her appetite and she could eat a dainty portion more akin to Tash’s and Jayne’s. Kate ordered a banana, chocolate, nut and cream crêpe.

This morning someone had suggested that they might go bowling or to the cinema tonight. Kate hoped that they’d choose the cinema over bowling, and a romance or a comedy over art-house. But she knew that if there was a consensus in favour of something arty and bleak, she wouldn’t voice her objections. Kate was not a stranger to silently participating in things that she didn’t really enjoy. For example, she found herself on the motorway travelling to Devon every weekend throughout the summer, and had done for five years now. Kate loved Devon, but the Lewis-Ponsonbys went there for sailing, and Kate hated sailing. She wasn’t a very good swimmer and more than a little bit nervous of boats. She’d never said so. She would seem such a damp squib. They’d spent a fortune on buying the boat, employing a crew, hiring a summer house, getting lessons for the children. It would be madness to admit that she didn’t enjoy the sport. Besides which, they’d made some great friends at the sailing club. Well, some fun acquaintances at least.

She felt the same about classical music and opera. At least once a month, Ted would blow over
£
500 on tickets for Glyndebourne or Kenwood, or a box at Covent Garden. She did like the champagne during the interval, and it was nice taking her friends along, but frankly she was much more of a musical type of girl at heart. She had
Phantom of the Opera
,
Cats
,
Chicago
and
Les Misérables
on DVD. She watched them by herself when Aurora was taking a nap and there was no one else in the house. She had
Jesus Christ Superstar
on CD in the car, and she knew every word. She’d play it as she went to pick up the children from ballet, or school, or horse riding. Once the children were in the car, the preferred form of entertainment was Harry Potter on tape, and she enjoyed that, too. It just wasn’t very vogue to admit to a passion for musicals, was it? People had passion for opera and mere affection for Julie Andrews belting out ‘My Favourite Things’ in
The Sound of Music
.

Kate wondered if Natasha might like musicals or whether she was too trendy. She had a hope that at least Natasha wouldn’t mind that Kate liked them. As much as Kate adored Mia, she would never dare admit her love for all things Andrew Lloyd Webber to her. She could imagine the tongue lashing. Kate sighed and returned to her hot chocolate, comforting herself with the thought that either bowling or the cinema was preferable to a club.

Jayne stomped into the bar. It was convenient to pretend that she was trying to budge snow off her boots, when in fact she was simply furious. She failed to notice the rustic charm of the bar, and her first thought was, ‘God, what crap tunes they’re playing.’ Fucking Meatloaf, going on about wanting some woman and needing her, but not going the whole hog and loving her. Two out of three was lousy in Jayne’s opinion. What a pointless, senseless – and, worst of all, poignant – lyric. It could be her personal theme tune. Where were the Coldplay tracks? And Air and Zero 7?

Jayne marched up to the bar – a woman serving, typical, not even a tasty barman to flirt with – and ordered a glass of red wine. The bartender’s eyes involuntarily and reproachfully flicked towards the clock on the wall. It was 5.30 p.m. Jayne glowered. She knew that the bartender would assume that she, like many British tourists, was planning on drinking constantly from now until the early hours of tomorrow morning. Jayne picked up her glass, threw down a couple of euros and turned to scope the bar, as was her habit. She was looking for someone to flirt with. Someone who would reaffirm her attractiveness and buy her drinks. Someone who wouldn’t wipe away her kisses. The two guys sitting at the bar had smiled at her the instant she’d walked into the bar. Dream on, guys. Not up to scratch.

Bugger, that was Kate. Jayne did not fancy making polite conversation with her dull-as-ditchwater sister-in-law. In fact, she’d rather self-administer a large suppository. Had Kate spotted Jayne? It appeared not. Kate was drowning in hot chocolate. Jayne acted quickly and settled into another dark corner, one that was out of Kate’s view.

He had snubbed her! Wiped her kiss away. Denied her even! Jayne hadn’t even made it into his stories. Why not? Why
not
? Rich had told Tash about Mia, and Mia had fat thighs. Why didn’t he talk about Jayne? Was she so insignificant? They’d once had sex in the toilets of a bar. She thought that alone should have guaranteed her a degree of notoriety. Fucking bastard.

Why was he wasting his time with Natasha?

It was
such
a waste. Such a terrible,
awful
mistake. She couldn’t let it happen. Every single bone in her body screamed in revolt at the idea. Every blood vessel was engorged with horror and anger. So many tragedies happened in this world. You had only to switch on the news to see disaster and cruel mishap. Just the other day she’d read this awful story in the
Metro
about some guy making a spur-of-the-moment decision to hire a private plane to get him up to Scotland for an important business meeting. The newspaper reported that he’d never expressed an interest in small planes to any of his friends. Then the plane he hired fell out of the sky. Killing him and the pilot. A needless disaster, resulting from a hurried, ill-considered decision. Jayne would not let Rich plummet to his death by choosing the wrong mode of transport. She would stop this disaster. There were things that were supposed to happen and things that weren’t, and this wasn’t. He belonged with her.

Jayne had spent an hour in her room examining the contents of a metal box, slightly bigger than a shoe box. She kept it locked, and wore the key on a silver chain around her neck.

Many girls and women kept similar memento boxes. There might even be boys who did the same thing, but it seemed unlikely. These boxes housed tickets from particular cinema visits, where their date had been especially solicitous, invites to weddings, old diaries, even the occasional pressed flowers. It wasn’t just the Victorians that had a penchant for the sentimental. Jayne’s box housed fourteen old diaries, dating back from her sixteenth birthday, until last year. The diaries were all different, reflecting the tastes of a gauche teenage girl who had grown into a sophisticated woman; pink plastic covers were swapped for deep-brown buckskin. There were a handful of photos and numerous tube tickets, some as old as ten years. Jayne picked them up and carefully counted them. There were sixty-six – she knew that before she counted them. There were a couple of beer mats, three champagne corks and a dog-eared copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
. There was a torn envelope, addressed to her, and on the back, in a different handwriting, someone had written ‘
Later X
’. There was another scrap of paper on which the word ‘plumber’ and a telephone number were written. There was a small cardboard box inside which lay what looked suspiciously like toenail cuttings, curled and yellow, and two or three pubic hairs, curled and brown.

She took this box with her wherever she went. Even on holidays, despite the fact that it took up so much space in her suitcase and seriously affected what else she could pack. If Jayne’s flat were ever to go up in flames, and she was only able to save one thing, she’d let her hamster burn and save the box.

Looking through her treasure box always cheered her up. Here was evidence of their relationship. The diaries detailed how Rich had taken Jayne’s virginity on her sixteenth birthday and, while they hadn’t actually met for the next five years, hardly a day went by when his name didn’t appear in the diaries. None of the boys in her sixth form or at university could even come close. They were silly, inexperienced and, the biggest sin of all – as far as the teenage Jayne had been concerned – spotty. Most of them had those awful yellow spots that oozed or spurted gooey pus. Jayne couldn’t imagine giving herself to those bags of hormones. Rich was, by contrast, beautiful. He was tall and lean and rugged. The handful of photos proved that. He looked surprised in all the shots. He didn’t really like having his photo taken, and he’d always mess about covering his face with his hands or a magazine. As though she was a tabloid photographer and had caught him, a reluctant star. The only photo he looked peaceful in was the one that she had taken of him sleeping.

It was Rich who had inspired Jayne to become a management consultant. Not that he actually recommended the career path to her, but he was very helpful when she left university and expressed an interest in becoming a consultant. He’d met her for coffee and laughed about the lousy hours and the lovely pay packets. It had been the obvious move for Jayne to apply to Peterson Windlooper because Rich seemed so inspired working there.

Their relationship had begun in earnest pretty soon after that, as soon as Jayne moved to London from college. The sixty-six tube tickets were gathered over the next nine years, two tickets for every time Jayne made the journey to and from Rich’s flat in Islington.

Jayne had examined the scraps of paper that Rich had written on, the note he’d left for her, ‘
Later X
’, and the telephone number of the plumber that she’d stolen from his flat. She’d fingered the book that he’d recommended that she read, and the corks saved from the bottles of champagne that she’d bought and they’d enjoyed together.

A fourteen-year relationship.

Clearly he’d confessed to dozens of scenarios to Tash, but not hers. Jayne couldn’t understand it. Was he so ashamed of her?

Jayne reflected on this for a moment. Maybe there was another reason that Rich had never mentioned her to Tash, nothing to do with shame, indifference or neglect. Maybe he was protecting the sanctity of their relationship.

Jayne instantly felt cheered. Yes, that seemed possible.

That seemed probable.

The relationship between Rich and Jayne was so precious to him that he’d refused to spill out the details to Tash just for her titillation. It was perfectly possible that Rich was being a gentleman. Because he cared.

He cared for her.

Jayne thought she might order some champagne right now. She went to the bar and bought a bottle, ignoring the odd look that the bargirl insisted on bestowing.

He hadn’t pulled away from her kiss straight away, had he?

In fact, it sort of felt as though he’d kissed her back, or at least wanted to. Jayne took a sip of champagne, then another. It was obvious. Rich had found himself drawn into this marriage thing, but he wasn’t serious about it. Not really.

Jayne took a massive gulp of champagne and half emptied her glass. The crazy bubbles danced on her tongue, demanding she lose her senses, which, after all, she was already keen to fling away.

If he was serious about marrying Tash, he would never have agreed to Jayne coming along on holiday. Clearly he wanted Tash to find out about them and to call off the wedding, so that he and Jayne could get back together.

Of course. It was crystal. Jayne took another massive swig, and this time she hardly noticed the sharp, almost bitter taste as she began to float, happily intoxicated. Jayne had always found that champagne took away the world’s problems; luckily her lifestyle – scattered with expense accounts and devoted suitors – was such that she could drink lots of it without either appearing like a lush or breaking the bank.